Unrighteous Self-Pity
If you know how to die you know how to live.
Listen to Bryant
In the basement by the light bulb.
Live and Let Die
Let Me Die First.
(Release some air for the breathless)
Die with a whole heart, unbroken, unfixed
Die without orgasms
Die at 47--Depression
Die at ten and seven--Fell off the earth
Listen to O'Neill
I know this guy, I know his circles
I've inherited his gift/curse of
Seeing the insides of people through their pupils
Blue, Hazel, Brown, Black, they're all the same
They hate their lives but they don't show it
They sob sitting on the cold steel toilet
No periods, no commas, to hell with punctuation
There's no poetry, no fiction, no prose
Stop writing
Stop drinking your coffee and
Typing on your laptops
Stop your romanticizing
Nobody cares
The best have already been
You're only copycats and imitators and posers
Amateurs
The great ones dig deeper in the ground
Away from you
Read and don't write
Or
Do some math problems
"Everybody needs math nowadays"
Become a
Doctor or a
Stock broker
Or
Go turn to dust at your cubicle
Do some slothful American job
Communication Nation
Industrialization
Mechanization
Machines run the nation
People watch the machines
And wet themselves
And soil themselves
And ejaculate
Listen to Bob Dylan
Was this good enough for you
Poetry Soup, poetry.com, winningwriters.com?
Did it make the minimum amount of sense?
Was it modern enough for you?
You're just like the rest of the jungle
"Phonies"
"Conformists"
Praise be to Jean Marie Marchese,
And Tony Bush, and Deborah
Simpson and...Gods of the poetic universe
If only I were a Premier Member
Copyright © Zachary Richardson | Year Posted 2006
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